


crushed by the noise inside

by dragongirlG



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Accidental Torture through Sleep Deprivation, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captivity, Consent Issues, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Flashbacks, Fuck Or Die, HYDRA Trash Party, Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insomnia, M/M, Magical Healing Cock, Masturbation, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sleeping Drugs (Ineffective), Top Steve Rogers, Trauma, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28278642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/pseuds/dragongirlG
Summary: After Project Insight fails, the Winter Soldier is taken into custody by the Avengers and suffers a seemingly incurable bout of insomnia. Desperate, bored, and anxious, he takes more and more extreme measures to try to get some rest. None of them work until Captain America activates an old HYDRA trigger routine: fucking the Winter Soldier to sleep.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 26
Kudos: 167
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	crushed by the noise inside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZepysGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZepysGirl/gifts).



> Thank you for your patience and friendship, ZepysGirl! Happy holidays. I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> Title from ["Stranded"](https://youtu.be/FNdC_3LR2AI) by Gojira. 
> 
> Please heed the tags before reading.

Six days, three hours, ten minutes, and three seconds.

Four seconds.

Five seconds.

The Winter Soldier stares up at the ceiling of his cell, counting, counting. Waiting. Wondering.

There's an itch inside of him. An urge. Something living. Something ugly. A creature, burning him from the inside out. Burning and burning, freezing and freezing. Leaving him cold, empty. Shivering. Wanting.

His eyes dart to the corners. Soft golden light lines the edges of his cell. It has been three hours since the bulbs have dimmed. Another five hours until they start to brighten, slowly and slowly over the course of the day to imitate the natural cycle of the sun. And then the darkness descends, bit by bit, but never completely.

It's not like the tube. At least with the tube, he knew that it was only a matter of time before his mind and body shut off. He thinks he remembers being tired, too. Relieved. Wanting nothing but the numbing cold. Welcoming it.

He would welcome it again if he could.

But there is no tube here. They want him to sleep. To close his eyes, and lie relaxed upon a firm mattress, and breathe slowly and deeply until he is not conscious, as if that will also help turn him back from machine to man.

He has complied; of course he has. The only thing he knows to do is to comply. Every day, the Captain, the Falcon, and the Widow come and lead him through exercises both physical and mental. He completes them all. And yet in this task he fails, over and over and over.

Something is missing. Something that will help. It niggles at the back of his brain, one of the many memories that have been taken from him by the Chair. Not for the first time, a tendril of frustration rises in him, curls itself tight around his throat. He closes his eyes and assumes the rest position, flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest. Takes a measured breath, seven seconds in, seven seconds out. Repeats this over and over and over.

But his body does not rest, nor does his mind. Instead, the faint pressure he feels behind his eyes—reminiscent of the electric buzz of the Chair—increases, radiates until his skull feels like it's about to split open.

A hiss of air escapes through his gritted teeth. He presses his metal thumb against his temple. Wonders what would happen if he just pushed his way past the delicate skin to the pulse of blood underneath. Perhaps he's done that before. There's a flash, a vague sense-memory of something driving through his skull. Something that wasn’t the Chair. Something sharp. He reaches for it, tries to grasp it and make it come into clearer focus, but it dissipates, leaving nothing but a lingering sense of horror.

Blink. Blink. Blink. How long has it been now? The Soldier has lost count. The lights are still dim, so the new day has not yet dawned. When it does, what then? More tests, more training, more—more—more—

The Avengers found him on the bank of the Potomac River, watching Captain America regain consciousness. He went with them willingly, expecting an execution. The Commander had made it clear that the helicarriers were the Soldier's last mission. Project Insight: HYDRA's culminating achievement. There would be no need for him after.

But then—

He was expecting pain. Starvation. The Words. The Chair, or some version of it. Punishment.

But no. The Avengers, they've given him food. Water. A mattress, blankets, pillows. And strangest of all—choices. Small ones, like he's a child. "Would you like the red cup or blue cup?" "Water or juice?" "Do you prefer the wool blanket or the cotton blanket?"

He responds to these with a blank stare. He does not have preferences; he is not allowed to. That is a lesson that has been ingrained in his bones.

The Soldier does not understand what the Avengers are trying to achieve with their game.

That is a lie. He does understand. They are trying to make him fail. He does not have memories, precisely, but he has a vague sense that HYDRA used to do this to him, too. No matter what answer he chose, he would get punished.

He lets the Captain choose every time. The Falcon and the Widow can wait and wait and wait, letting the silence thicken until no one dares to breathe, but the Captain gets impatient. "Bucky—Soldier," he pleaded this afternoon, "you used to like the color blue. Is that still the case? How about the blue cup?"

"Captain," the Falcon said with a warning tone. The Widow let out an exasperated sigh.

The Captain's jaw clenched. There were still bandages on his face, and his eye socket was still swollen, yet he'd insisted on seeing the Soldier anyway. He placed the blue cup in front of the Soldier. It was full of water. "Go on. Take a drink."

The Soldier drank.

He eats, he drinks, he exercises under their command, their supervision. He is a caged animal, pacing the confines of its luxurious cell. It has always been such, it will always be so. To imagine something different—

The rancid river water weighing down his hair. The Captain's clammy face against his palm. The fire and ash raining down from the sky. Outside, outside. A place he rarely goes.

The Captain said, "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. I'm not going to fight you. You're my friend."

"You're my mission," the Soldier screamed, gnashing his teeth, trembling with fear, rage, confusion—he just wanted it to _stop_ —the metal arm swung back and hit the Captain in the face, over and over—

_Click-click-click-click._

The Soldier blinks and squints. The metal arm is clenched into a fist. He lifts it, squinting at the joints, and begins to count. How many plates? How many screws? He must not neglect the ones he can't see. He feels along the underside of the arm, the shoulder joint, the scapula. One, two, three, four. Five. Six. Seven…

Eighty-five plates.

One hundred and fourteen screws. More inside of him. He thinks of ripping open his skin, digging through until he finds the metal amidst the blood and bone. The thought feels familiar. Perhaps he's done that before?

He wonders if there is a manual. The technicians—did they learn how to maintain the arm from a diagram? Or were they taught solely through field experience, through oral instruction passed down generation after generation?

The lights are still dim.

Endless darkness—it brings a sense memory of weakness, pain, fear, desperation. An aching emptiness. It feels distant, like something from long ago. Early conditioning, then. Before the arm, before—

What was he before?

_"You're my friend. You're my friend. You're my friend."_

The Soldier grits his teeth and sits up, clutching his head in his hands as he blinks through gritty eyes.

_"You're my friend. You're my friend. You're my friend."_

"No," the Soldier utters in a harsh whisper. He shifts and presses his back to the wall, curling his knees up so his bare feet rest on the mattress.

_"You're my friend. You're my friend. You're my friend."_

The refrain continues, an endless drumbeat in the Soldier's head, until the lights brighten and the cell door opens. The Captain, the Widow, and the Falcon enter, and the Soldier straightens up, resting his hands on his knees, as he awaits his instructions for the day.

* * *

"You're not sleeping," the Falcon says after the Soldier has completed his usual round of physical training. (Bodyweight exercises, mostly, followed by an extensive stretching routine that the Widow insists on doing alongside him. There is always a certain number to do. The Soldier likes to keep count.)

The Soldier stares at the Falcon blankly, unsure whether he should acknowledge the truth of that statement. The Captain shifts, anxiety evident on his face. The Widow tilts her head, eyes flickering as she observes the Soldier's reaction.

"Is it the mattress?" the Captain asks.

The Soldier blinks.

"Is it too soft? Too hard?"

It is neither, the Soldier thinks. Is that an acceptable answer? He does not know, so he keeps his mouth shut.

The Falcon sighs. "Sleep is important for your recovery. If you're not able to achieve it on your own right now, we can provide aids. Some people enjoy listening to music or audiobooks, or doing meditation exercises, to try to relax themselves. Sleeping aids like sedatives can also help. Your lights are already on a timer, too, but we can try adjusting the lights if your body naturally rests at a different time."

Why don't you use the Chair, the Soldier thinks, but the words stick in his throat. The Chair belonged to HYDRA. It's unlikely the Avengers would even know of its existence.

The Captain clears his throat, stepping forward. The bandages are off now, but his face is swollen with lingering bruises from the Soldier's metal fist. "It's been six days. Your body—even enhanced—is in dire need of sleep. My limit is seven days, and yours is probably similar. Until we can figure something out, the immediate solution is to sedate you at night." He looks intently at the Soldier as if waiting for a response, face falling after thirty seconds of silence. He sighs. "We'll try it then."

The routine continues. Exercise. A bath. Food. Tests of his language abilities using an AI interface—Mandarin Chinese, this time. Breathing exercises. The choice game: Lime jello or lemon jello. Chocolate ice cream or vanilla ice cream. Grape juice or apple juice. Wheat bread or white bread.

The Soldier samples all of what's given, expresses no preferences. The Captain chooses again: Lemon. Chocolate. Apple. Wheat. The Soldier eats and drinks what he is given.

After dinner, the trio leaves, then returns with a bag full of medical equipment. The Widow and the Falcon work jointly to stick a needle in the Soldier's flesh arm. The Captain hovers nearby, overseeing them with anxious eyes. The sedative takes forty-five seconds to go from the bag into the Soldier's bloodstream. The puncture mark takes half a second to heal.

"You'll start feeling the effects in about fifteen minutes," the Falcon says. "Try to lie down before then." He and the Widow turn and leave, but the Captain lingers. 

"I um—I hope you're able to get some rest tonight."

The Soldier averts his gaze. He knows he is wearing the face of the Captain's dead best friend, Bucky Barnes. But even if they once shared a body, there is no trace of Bucky left inside him. The Soldier's brain has been scraped raw from repeated applications of the Chair and years of HYDRA's conditioning. The only fragment left is the part that understands obedience.

_"But I knew him,"_ the Soldier's own voice echoes in his mind. He bats the thought away like a buzzing mosquito.

The Captain sighs. "Good night."

The Soldier watches the Captain's silhouette disappear through the door, then lets out a sigh and lies down on the bed to wait.

Sleep does not come.

The Soldier blinks up at the ceiling and lifts his flesh hand, staring at its outline in the dim light. One by one, he begins naming the bones, starting with the distal phalanx all the way to the radius. His thoughts seem slower, muddier, swimming through the swamp of his brain. Perhaps that's the effect of the sedative. Or perhaps exhaustion is finally taking hold—though it's not enough to pull him into unconsciousness.

He sighs and shifts; then, without thinking, reaches down with his flesh hand and grips his limp cock through his soft pants. The organ starts to harden, and there's a minor sensation of—something. It's not pleasurable, exactly, just strange.

The Soldier grimaces. Well, it’s not as if he has anything better to do.

He presses his palm flat against his cock, rubbing through the thin layers of cloth until they're tented, then finally reaches into his briefs and curls his fingers around his erection. The skin is hot and damp, and his cock twitches at the contact, leaking sticky fluid from the tip. He thumbs it on instinct, sucking in a breath as something coils hot in his groin and belly. His hand moves of its own accord, tugging up and down, up and down, faster, slower, until the rhythm feels right. Then it's just a matter of repeating the motion, over and over, the tightness in that area increasing and increasing until—suddenly—there's a release, a splatter of fluid against his navel, and a limp cock resting sticky in his hand.

The Soldier wipes himself with the edge of his blanket, tucks his cock back in, and folds his arm over his chest. He closes his eyes. He breathes. He waits.

He does not sleep.

Five hours, fourteen minutes, and fifty-five seconds pass before the lights brighten. The Soldier counts every single one of them, frustration burning in his blood.

* * *

"I take it the sedative didn't work," the Falcon says. "Did you sleep at all?"

"No," the Soldier answers.

The Falcon nods as if this is the answer he expected, even as the Captain's mouth turns down in a disappointed frown. The Widow's gaze is liquid and unreadable. "We'll try a different dose tonight. In the meantime, we thought we'd do something a little different this morning." He waves a hand, and the AI interface that displays the Soldier's language tests appears with a glowing box titled MUSIC. "Sometimes people find that music helps them relax enough to go to sleep, so we thought we'd give you a sampler. This interface will be available to you from now on. You don't just have to use this before you go to bed; you can listen to music during the day as well if that's something you enjoy. Go ahead and hit the music button to start sampling."

All of the music sounds vaguely familiar, but one style in particular catches the Soldier's attention. "This is big band swing music," the Falcon explains. He glances down to the Soldier's feet, which have started tapping along to the beat. The Soldier quickly stills, and the Falcon waves a hand. "Nah, nah, it's got a good beat, right? Don't stop on my account. If you feel it, then you feel it."

The Captain makes an aborted move in the corner. The Soldier turns his gaze to him, and he clears his throat sheepishly as the Widow raises an eyebrow.

"Um," the Captain says, scratching the back of his neck. "B—I mean. This is what I grew up listening to as a child."

Presumably Bucky Barnes also grew up listening to this music as a child. Likely with the Captain—Steve Rogers—at his side. The Soldier wonders if Bucky Barnes was a dancer. His body is straining to move a certain way, to take the melody and _swing, swing, swing_ , to pull a blonde boy with skinny shoulders and oversized clothes close and—

The Soldier abruptly hits STOP on the interface, and the room goes silent. He clenches his fists, holding himself back against the pull of the invisible ghostly puppet master who happened to share his face years ago, and stares hard at the floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Captain's face fall. It does not bring him the relief he thought it would.

"So," the Falcon says, clearing his throat. "There's a lot more big band music on here if that's a style you like. We'll um—we'll go and get your lunch now, then continue with the usual routine."

The Captain's eyes are red-rimmed when the trio returns. He's more subdued than usual, letting the Widow and the Falcon direct the Soldier instead of doing it himself. He doesn't even give answers for the choice games. Instead, the Widow pulls up the AI and makes it pick between the two options randomly. The Soldier ends up with orange juice over pineapple juice, rye bread over white bread, pistachios over cashews, pear slices over apple slices, and the blue electrolyte drink instead of the red electrolyte drink.

He feels a tingle of regret at the last one. No drink should ever be such an unnatural color. The red one would have at least tasted like fruit.

The Soldier receives another dose of sedative after dinner, then systematically samples every song in the big band section of the music catalogue. It takes one hour, thirty-three minutes, and four seconds—at least, that's what he has calculated. The sedative has not yet put him to sleep, but it has made it harder to account for time.

He lets silence ring throughout the cell as he lies down and closes his eyes. He feels more restless than usual, his breaths coming shorter and his heart beating faster than usual. He considers masturbating again, but he quickly dismisses the thought. Yesterday's experiment had left him nothing more than sticky and frustrated.

_There's more than one way to get off, Soldier_ , a voice whispers sibilantly in his mind. It's accompanied by a mocking laugh, along with the phantom sensation of something slick and cold sliding in between his legs and up his ass. The Soldier clenches against it, his teeth grinding together out of half-remembered discomfort, and then his eyes fly open abruptly.

_More than one way to get off._

The Soldier lets out a breath.

What could it hurt to try?

He inhales slowly, then brings two flesh fingers to his mouth, sucking on them until they're covered with saliva. Then he pushes down his pants and his briefs, curls his knees up so that his feet lie flat on the blanket-covered mattress. The wool blanket scratches the underside of his feet. (He has not yet tried lying under the blankets. Doing so feels wrong.)

He spares a brief thought to whichever Avenger is monitoring his cell and seeing him exposed like this. The Falcon, the Widow, and, most importantly, the Captain had not said a word about what had happened last night, so surely what he did is allowed. For now.

Perhaps a punishment is forthcoming. The Soldier does not care.

The first press of his finger burns, and the Soldier almost abandons the whole venture altogether. But the thought of giving up so easily leaves a sour taste in his mouth. What will he do after? Lie in silence again, counting all of the hairs on his head? No. He lets out a breath, spreads his legs even wider, and slowly inserts his index finger into his hole, bit by bit until he reaches the first knuckle. The intrusion stings, but the Soldier pushes past it, breathing slowly until the pain dulls. He pushes deeper, taking frequent pauses until the finger is all the way in. Then he repeats the process with the second finger, holding it in, letting his body adjust until it almost starts to feel natural.

He moves his fingers in and out, in and out, but the sensation does nothing for him except make him aware of his distinct lack of lubrication. Surely there must be something he's missing. Something like—

He crooks his fingers, pressing carefully against the walls, and then hits a nub that makes his cock jump to attention immediately. That must be it.

In and out, in and out, press, press. Repeat, repeat. His cock fills with blood, dripping against his stomach, and he carefully tugs it with his metal hand, making sure the skin doesn't catch on any of the plates, and to his surprise, he begins to feel very faint stirrings of pleasure. He keeps going, going, jolts of heat from within and without sending pleasant shocks throughout his blood, and then—he spills messily all over his stomach, droplets splattering on the hem of his untucked shirt as his cock pulses over and over and over again.

He cleans up his mess and pulls his pants back up slowly, exhaling long and slow. He feels relaxed. Almost woozy. He closes his eyes, relief coursing through his veins, and then—

His eyes snap open, and his heart pounds. Something is wrong. He feels—like something's missing. Like he needs—like he needs—

His ass clenches desperately around nothing. Empty. Too empty. With a gasp, he pulls his pants back down and unceremoniously shoves his fingers back in. Two isn't enough—he needs three. The resulting discomfort is negligible in his desperation. He doesn't even register that he's using his metal hand inside himself until he feels his clammy skin on his limp, uncooperative cock. Tug, tug, rub, rub, in and out, in and out, press the nub—rougher, faster, gentler, slower—yet none of it satisfies.

The Soldier's mouth opens and he lets out a voiceless scream of rage, jerking his hands away from his genitals. The ever-present pressure behind his skull—momentarily relieved by his orgasm—has come back stronger than ever. He squeezes his eyes shut hard, startling as something wet trickles down his face. With one finger, he catches it, then tastes it on his tongue. It's saltier than sweat. Tears.

Unacceptable. The Soldier swipes at his eyes, nearly bruising himself in the process. He wonders what time it is now, how long it will be till his false daylight returns—and whether he'll ever know the meaning of rest again.

* * *

The Falcon and the Captain arrive in the morning without the Widow. "She's doing some work for a mission," the Falcon says, even though the Soldier didn't ask. "She'll be back tomorrow."

"Did the sedative not work?" the Captain asks, examining the Soldier's under-eye bags with concern.

"No," the Soldier snaps. "Obviously."

The Captain's eyes widen.

The Soldier realizes far too late just how disrespectful that sounded. He braces himself for a blow, but it never comes. Instead, the Captain takes a step back, his eyes lighting with something that looks disturbingly like hope.

The Falcon frowns. "Soldier, we should have asked before. What would make you go to sleep?"

The Soldier wants to roll his eyes. "The Chair," he bites out. "The cryotube."

The Captain flinches. The Falcon goes still.

"Please," the Soldier adds.

"I'm sorry, Soldier," the Falcon says. "The Chair and the cryotube have been destroyed. We need to find an alternative solution."

The Soldier takes a deep breath, forcibly pushing back his rage. "Fine." There is something tickling at the back of his mind, something he thinks might be a third option—but all that's left of it in his brain is an empty space. He resists the urge to curse. Didn't HYDRA want him to be functional? Why didn't they leave him the ability to sleep?

_Functional but dependent_ , a nasal, accented voice echoes in his ear. It's followed by resounding laughter that makes his stomach roil with dread.

The usual routine proceeds, but the Soldier can hardly concentrate on even the simplest tasks. Heavy fatigue weighs down his limbs, while his thoughts circle restlessly in his mind, replaying the same half-remembered echoes over and over. The Captain shoots him worried looks that burn worse than the halos of the Chair. The Soldier pointedly ignores them.

Time passes in fits and starts. It's mid-morning, and the Soldier has just finished his physical conditioning. He hasn't even counted all his reps like he usually does. Lunch. The Soldier eats, but barely registers the sensation and texture of the food that goes into his mouth. The choice game, with the AI making random decisions. More music sampling, which the Soldier only registers as cacophony. Questions and questions—he opens his mouth and answers but can't remember a single word he utters.

Breathing exercises, in, out, listening to the heartbeat, making it slow so that it's unnoticeable. Important for a sniper. Important for missions. Don't let the target see you, hear you, sense you. Only we know you're there, Soldier. You belong to HYDRA and HYDRA alone.

No. Not true. Not HYDRA's. He belongs—he belonged. He belonged to someone else. A clink. Dogtags on a chain, his own and his lover's. His left hand, left thumb, warm flesh against cold metal. Traces the letters. _S. T. E.—_

"Soldier. Soldier."

The Soldier blinks. He is sitting on the floor. The Captain is standing over him. The Falcon is—gone.

"Ready to comply," the Soldier says.

The Captain flinches.

Perhaps it didn't come out in English. This is Captain _America_ , after all. The Soldier focuses on the vibrations of his own throat, makes sure his tongue forms the right shape. "Ready. To. Comply. Sir."

The Captain sighs, clearly disappointed. "Can you sleep, Soldier?"

What kind of question is that. The Soldier hates this game—the one where he has to acknowledge his failures over and over until his masters are satisfied. Still, he forces the words past his lips. "I am unable to sleep," he says, enunciating each syllable as if that will somehow drive the point across. "I cannot sleep."

Between one blink and the next, the Captain vanishes. The Soldier takes a startled breath. Was he ever there? The lights. The lights are still on, still bright. The door opens, and the Falcon and the Captain walk in with a tray of food. Breakfast? No. Lunch—he ate that. Dinner?

It's dinner. Two types of cookies. Chocolate. Oatmeal. He doesn't choose, he eats them both. Then there's a needle in his arm, a sedative being pumped into his blood. It won't work. He thinks he says that, but maybe he doesn't. It wouldn't have made a difference anyway. His body has not belonged to him for a long time now. Drugs, surgeries, a metal arm—he asked for none of them, begged not to receive them, begged to be allowed to die. But no, he is—he is—is he immortal?

He thinks of being woken, again and again, his body left in the ice for years at a time, perfectly preserved. His mind, too—wiped clean of memories like a blank slate, yet still working, working, working, always observing, always assessing—angles and weapons and behaviors. What is reward—what is punishment—is this both? He remembers, suddenly, learning about purgatory. Neither heaven nor hell, just an endless limbo, an eternity of waiting and waiting without relief.

The room is dark, and the Soldier is awake. His breath comes short and fast, his blood thunders in his ears, his heart rattles against his ribcage, _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-DUM_ , and something trickles down his face, warm, wet, salty, but without the metallic tang of blood or the bitter taste of—

He hates it when his body betrays him like this. HYDRA loves it when he cries, rejoices in it even as they punish him for being weak. He's long since given up understanding what his masters want. Comply, comply, _comply_ with every order even if it contradicts the one just given. _Lie down on your back. No, your stomach. Roll over like a good dog. Now get up on your hands and knees. Spread 'em, boy. Wider. Wider. Touch yourself. No, stop. Not there. Open yourself up._

_Come on, Soldier, you can go deeper than that. Deeper. Look at that, your cock's perked up! Keep going, Soldier, keep going. Another finger. Such a greedy hole. Does that feel good, Soldier? Oh, look at that. You found the spot. Good boy. Go on, Soldier, get yourself off. You have permission. What? That wasn't enough? What are you crying about, huh? What do you want? What do you need?_

The tears are flowing freely now, dripping onto the concrete floor, and the Soldier feels a sudden, inexplicable rage. He wrenches his right hand out of his ass, clenching around the terrible emptiness it leaves, and swings at the wall with a guttural cry. His pants and briefs fall down, tangling in his ankles, and he kicks them off with another scream as he tears his shirt off, the sensation of cloth upon skin intolerable and overwhelming. _Help me_ , he wants to shout, _help me, help me—_ but he trained himself out of saying those words long ago, knowing they would get no answer, would only worsen whatever punishment he was receiving, whatever game he was being forced to play—"Please," he manages instead, his voice scraped raw—they like it when he begs. "Please, please, please—"

The room floods with blinding light, white, blue, gold all mixing together. The Soldier squeezes his eyes shut, dropping to his knees and prostrating himself to the floor without stopping his begging. "Please, please, please, please—"

"Bucky!"

Who the hell is Bucky?

"Soldier. Soldier!"

There are hands on him. The Soldier's skin crawls, and he lashes out, bucking against the grip of whoever's got him in a bodylock. It should be easy—no one is match for the Soldier's strength—yet he can't break free, can't—how—what—he snarls, tries to move the arm but it won't go—there's an EMP on it, a Widow's Bite—

"Soldier," the man says, voice firm. The Soldier knows that voice, knows it even better than he knows his own— _the little guy from Brooklyn that was too dumb to run away from a fight_ —the Soldier will follow that voice to the ends of the earth, will defy every command he's been given previously to _do what that voice says_ —

No. _No._ Fear crawls up the Soldier's veins. This is an override switch that's even older than what HYDRA programmed into him, and he doesn't want it. He thrashes, jerking his head back so it hits the man's chin, and the man grunts in surprise, loosening his grip. The Soldier elbows him hard in the ribs with his flesh hand, turning with a growl—but then there's a sharp prick to his neck, and his knees are buckling uselessly—he's falling, down down down into the ravine as the wind screams past his ears and—he's being caught by his shoulders and manhandled to the bed, the mattress—no, no, _no_ —

"Soldier." The man is on top of him now, bracketing the Soldier in with his knees. The Soldier takes in the blonde hair, the blue eyes, the sharp jaw—the Captain, some distant part of his brain registers, it's the Captain. "Soldier, please stop fighting. I'll give you what you need." He swallows hard. "Are you ready to comply?"

"Ready to comply," the Soldier grits out.

"Okay," the Captain breathes. "Okay. Hold still, Soldier." He keeps his eyes on the Soldier's as he slowly removes the EMP from the Soldier's metal arm and takes out the silver needle that he'd jabbed into the Soldier's neck. The Soldier shudders as he regains his range of motion but otherwise keeps still, watching with bewilderment as the Captain's face crumples like he's about to cry.

“Nat,” the Captain says thickly, tapping the hidden comm in his ear. “Are you sure this—okay. Yes. Yes, I understand.” He takes a shaking breath and swipes at his eyes, then clenches his jaw and orders flatly, "Soldier, put your feet flat on the bed."

The Soldier does.

The Captain takes another breath and clenches his jaw, obviously steeling himself for something, and then, without any ceremony whatsoever, he unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants, and pulls out his limp cock.

The Soldier eyes it warily, some part of him already preparing to receive it in his mouth, but before he can part his lips, the Captain pulls out a bottle of lube from his pants pocket and begins pumping his cock with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. It fattens up anyway, and the Captain keeps pumping as he drizzles the fingers of his other hand with lube. Tentatively, he circles the Soldier's hole before inserting a finger inside. It slides in easily, and the Soldier stops paying attention in favor of studying the Captain's facial expressions, which shift between dread, determination, guilt, and frustration between one second and the next. There's not even the slightest hint of pleasure.

Interesting. Perhaps the Captain is getting punished too. He'd been under the impression that the Captain was the leader of the team, but perhaps he is subordinate to someone that the Soldier doesn't know.

"I'm going to—" The Captain gestures vaguely in the direction of the Soldier's hole, clearly expecting some sort of response.

"Ready to comply," the Soldier says.

The Captain's mouth tightens. "Very well." He positions himself at the Soldier's entrance and pushes inside, inhaling sharply as he bottoms out. He pauses there, eyes catching the Soldier's, and the Soldier feels something raw and vulnerable squirm inside his chest. He ruthlessly shoves it down and gives the Captain a stony glare.

"Ready to comply," he repeats.

Disappointment flashes clear across the Captain's face. The Soldier tenses, bracing for punishment, but the Captain doesn't slap him, or choke him, or pull his hair tight. Instead, the Captain runs a gentle hand down the Soldier's side, braces himself on his elbows, and proceeds to fuck him in a steady rhythm.

The Soldier—to his utter surprise—finds himself relaxing with each thrust, giving up on his usual meticulous count as the tension slowly leaches out of his limbs. He barely even notices when the Captain gets faster, a hazy warmth settling over him as he faintly registers the squeaking of the mattress and the squelch of skin against skin.

"Almost there, Buck," the Captain breathes, then blinks and shakes his head. "Sorry. I mean. Soldier." A bead of sweat drips down from his hairline, and the Soldier drowsily traces its path with his eyes as the Captain pistons his cock in and out of the Soldier's ass, chasing his own pleasure with punched-out groans. One roll of his hips, and then another, and then—an evident release, accompanied by a sharp, high-pitched gasp. It's oddly familiar, calling up some half-formed memory in the recesses of the Soldier's mind.

The Captain pulls out and cleans them both up with gentle motions, redressing the Soldier with a fresh set of clothes so that he's no longer naked on the bed. The Soldier lets out a long sigh, barely managing to keep his eyes open as he murmurs a half-slurred thanks. His body feels heavy, his mind quiet; when the Captain tells him to relax, to get comfortable, he finds that he actually can.

The Captain pauses just before he slips through the door. "Don't worry about waking up on schedule. Take as much time as you need to recover. We—I'll explain more when you wake up." He pauses, then says quietly, _"Go to sleep, Soldier."_

The Soldier closes his eyes with a soft, relieved sigh. Finally, he sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos, and transformative works are always appreciated. Please see my [AO3 profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/profile) for my transformative works policy. 
> 
> Say hello at [tumblr](https://dragongirlg-fics.tumblr.com/).


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